


That Secret That We Know (That We Don't Know How to Tell)

by sweeterthankarma



Series: SKAM Fic Challenge August 2020 [1]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Anorexia, Closeted Character, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Lesbian Vilde Lien Hellerud, Mild Angst, Questioning, Repression, Season/Series 04, Vilde has a lot of thoughts and feelings, especially for Noora, though she doesn't quite understand them fully yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: Vilde’s stomach churns, grumbles at her when the smell of fried batter wafts across the open hall and loiters into her nostrils. Noora eats away obliviously and Vilde admires her for it, wishes she could do the same even as she feels some sort of sickening pride about her own inability to swallow more than a few bites of mashed squash. She used to think of this as a mastering of self-control, of will power, of strength. Now she just thinks it’s sad.
Relationships: Vilde Lien Hellerud/Noora Amalie Sætre
Series: SKAM Fic Challenge August 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867486
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	That Secret That We Know (That We Don't Know How to Tell)

**Author's Note:**

> For thirty one days, I'll be writing and posting SKAM fics inspired by the prompts listed [here](https://www.writerswrite.co.za/31-writing-prompts-for-august-2020/). These fics will be anywhere from 100-1,000 words approximately, will be for different characters and relationships, canon and non-canon, within the original Norwegian SKAM universe. All fics will stand alone. Check out the prompt list and let me know if you have any ideas for what you'd like me to write on a specific day!
> 
> Day 1 Prompt: Spinach.
> 
> Title comes from the song "Blood Bank" by Bon Iver.

Vilde hates spinach. 

She knows she’s supposed to like it, or at least tolerate it. It’s a vegetable, a superfood, something adults eat, and she’s almost eighteen, though if you ask her, she does enough adult-ish things to be considered one already. And she  _ does  _ eat vegetables; in fact, they’re pretty much the only thing she eats. 

Which isn’t saying a lot, considering the fact that she hardly ever eats. Especially not on days like today. The amount of models she’s seen with nearly zero percent body fat is making her head spin, heart ache, and blood boil, and she’s only been through one floor of the mall.

She just _ hates _ this mess of green tangled up on the corner of her plate like some kind of drowned, hideous sea creature, wet and formed together into a jiggly blob that she can’t bear to take another bite of. It shakes when she touches it with her fork. It reminds her of her own hips, the way they fold over just enough to be noticeable when she wears shorts or exercises in anything but Adidas brand leggings.

Vilde has scarfed down worse things, too much alcohol and triple the reasonable amount of laxatives and then an entire half of a cheesecake in one sitting, but something about this goddamn spinach, of all things, is unbearable right now.

Noora sits across the faded checkered table in a fuzzy sweater the color of fresh snow. Her vermillion lipstick, brighter than all of the signs around them in the food court, doesn’t smudge as she chews her own forkfuls eagerly. The green leaf Vilde is nearly fuming over pairs with pasta and brown rice— some kind of quinoa mix, it seems— and Noora hadn’t thought twice about ordering it, even though it cost extra. Two starches, two carbs, double the calories and triple the fat instead of getting another vegetable substituted or just skipping out on the extra portion altogether. Vilde wonders how she does it.

Vilde will be the first to admit, she’s relapsing a bit. Maybe a lot. Maybe she never even recovered in the first place. She thinks those are the technical words for something like this. She’s never been formally diagnosed, never spoken to a psychiatrist beyond the school nurse who’s treated her for stomachaches that she blames on period cramps instead of the fact she hasn’t eaten more than a granola bar and chamomile tea in two days. 

But Vilde’s nervous lately and so she’s made the autonomous, adult-ish choice to cope in her own way. In the way she’s grown used to, almost fond of. Besides, her mom isn’t doing great. Magnus is growing clingy. Eva is definitely dating Penetrator Chris. Her— _ their— _ impending graduation seems like a looming dead-end instead of the golden exit sign that she’s been skipping towards for so long. She wants to start all over again. She thinks she’d do a lot of things differently.

Vilde’s stomach churns, grumbles at her when the smell of fried batter wafts across the open hall and loiters into her nostrils. Noora eats away obliviously and Vilde admires her for it, wishes she could do the same even as she feels some sort of sickening pride about her own inability to swallow more than a few bites of mashed squash. She used to think of this as a mastering of self-control, of will power, of strength. Now she just thinks it’s sad.

Her fork dangles from her fingertips, loose and ready to fall at any given moment.

“I want French fries,” she murmurs into her forearm when she thinks Noora isn’t paying attention, too busy texting someone—  probably  _ Willhelm— _ on her phone with her newly manicured fingers, just painted baby pink a little over an hour ago. 

“Then get French fries,” Noora replies like it’s the most simple thing in the world. Like even thinking about French fries isn’t something that makes Vilde jittery, shaky and unsure and insecure. Bloated. Too big. Fat. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough.  _ I want to be able to see my ribs without stretching. I want to fit into a triple zero. I want to— _ _ _ __

“Come on, we’ll share some,” Noora insists, pushing her chair back with a loud squeak and reaching out a hand for Vilde to join. She pulls it back to her side once Vilde stands, like it was just a gesture to get her to rise to her feet, like Vilde wouldn’t have taken it and held on tight. She’s been thinking that she’d like to hold someone’s hand besides Magnus’s. Especially a girl’s. Maybe only a girl’s. Maybe only Noora’s.

“I’ve been extra hungry lately, too,” Noora says once they place their order and wait for it to be delivered. Vilde almost says something, swept up in disbelief that Noora can’t see how distressed she is, how worked up and overwhelmed. Noora always seems to see her, always seems to know, always seems to have gone through whatever Vilde’s feeling herself. 

But then Noora pulls her phone back out and swipes past a notification from—  of course— William to open the front-facing camera and take a few selfies. Noora’s hand rests on the back of Vilde’s neck, nestles in her previously Victoria’s Secret perfume sprayed hair as she pulls her closer, and Vilde watches as she pouts her lips to form a kissy face. Vilde mimics it, looks at her reflection in the screen, and just for a few moments,  she’s distracted. 

Vilde doesn’t realize until later that it was a calculated move, an easy foray from talking and thinking and focusing on food to simply being in the moment. It was something that she needed, something Noora recognized enough to offer. Vilde shamelessly adds it to her ever-expanding mental list of reasons that maybe Noora herself is exactly what Vilde needs, and she tries to sleep, to not overthink that thought too. If Noora’s taught her anything, maybe she needs to think less, do more. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day. 
> 
> Come say hi at my Tumblr blog [here!](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/)


End file.
